The true horror stories in Paris-Part 11

Incapable of escaping the suffering I was subjected by my anti-social neighbor upstairs, I prayed for the morning to come sooner when Leila would have to go to work.  She did and her high heels kicking the floor subsided, but right before she left she had set her washing machine for another long cycle again.  Beaten, I lost conscious.  I woke up with a lot of sweat.  Weak as I was my survival instinct kicked in I managed to get up and hobbled down to the nearest grocery shop to buy some fresh orange juice.  I drank 2 liters at one sitting.

Now what?  Complaining to Leila’s landlord did not work out for Mr. A.  Besides it would only fuel Leila’ morbid desire to prey on the vulnerable.  It was her only way of mitigating her own sense of inferiority she is subjected to by other Caucasians in her miserable life.  I had to pretend that her washing machine did not bother me so as not to encourage her further, but to do that I had to book a hotel for to get over my flu.  The hotel fees are exorbitant in Paris, particularly if you did not book in advance.  It was really unfair, but it gave me time to research.  Apparently in Paris you can call the police if the noise persisted after 22:00.  One would be liable for a fine of 90 euros each time someone called on them.  Fortunately, the washing machine’s noise was included.      I went home wondering why Mr. A. had not resorted to this mean. 

When I reached the stairs I felt heaviness in the air.  Aura does carry a weight you know.  A pleasant person brightens up the place while those with dark aura oppresses.  My premonition turned out to be right.  There was a man standing by the window in the middle of the stair cases.  He was not tall and had dark hair.  When he turned around and saw that I was a woman his shrewd eyes broke into a condescending smile.  Then her voice was heard from above.  ‘Hey, that’s our new neighbor I was telling you about.’  Leila then turned to me, ‘he is my fiancé.  We’ll be living here.’ 

The fiancé, I shall refer to him as this because I could not pronounce his name, offered with a forced sweet voice to carry my grocery.  It contained a bottle of juice and loaf of bread only.  Besides I did not see him coming down the stair to get it.  Shamelessly fake who believes he can pass himself as a gentleman by a gesture of empty kindness.  Leila was observing me, evidently to see how much damage she had inflicted on me by her washing machine antics.  ‘How is your flu?  Feeling better?’  I suppressed my anger and replied quietly.  ‘It was not as bad as I thought, so I’ve just returned from a lovely short holidays.’  The disappointment in Leila’s eyes was disgusting.  To be continued.
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